bottle went missing.
Suddenly he realizes there may be more, and drops down to dig around in
the soda bottle cabinet.
______________________________
Finegan and the fisherman are going down some concrete stairs into the
basement of the castle hulk – an external entry to the basement. The
door to the basement has been blown open, the doors in fragments
pointing inward. There is some standing water on one side of the
basement floor, from rain and damaged drains and the fact that the
cataclysms tilted the house on its foundation. The walls are severely
cracked.
To one side of the basement, in one wall, is the entry to the food
stash, the entry now one big hole due to the explosion that set the
house afire. Various pieces of cardboard are littered here and there,
some floating in the flooded basement corner, as the supply depot has
been sifted through repeatedly by looters. Finegan is going to have a
look, and starts walking toward the blast hole.
Maybe they left some soap.
47
The shelves in the center of the bunker are knocked over and somewhat
charred. All the shelves of the bunker appear to be empty, though some
items have been thrown to the floor, discarded. As Finegan suspected,
these include boxes of soap powder and packages of bar soap. He goes
over to start stacking them in a pile. A voice growls out of the
corner.
That’s mine.
Finegan jerks his head up to look in one corner of the bunker, and sees
a shell of an old man, huddled behind some broken and empty cardboard
boxes. His clothing is matted with dirt, his hair long and stringy and
also matted, his beard thin and long, and his face wrinkly and with a
perpetual sneer plastered across his face. It is clear he has been
using a spot nearby for a toilet, as a pile of dung and yellow pool of
water attests. Finegan says,
Make you a trade! How about some roasted
pumpkin and pecans, eh? Something to eat.
The owner was not expecting to be fed or treated fairly, and looks
puzzled, unable to answer. Finegan takes the initiative. He pats the
pile of powdered soapboxes and bar soap packages.
I’ll leave these here, and be back in an hour
or so.
Finegan steps toward the exit, holding his soda bottle half full of
booze to his far side so the owner cannot see this. He moves lively,
before the owner can speak, the astonished fisherman at his heels. When
they are clear of the room and on their way up the concrete steps, the
fisherman says in a loud whisper.
I thought he was dead! . . Huh . . Maybe he had
a bunker within the bunker. . . What’s he been
eating?
______________________________
Finegan and the curious fisherman are returning down the concrete
steps, holding a couple plastic buckets. One is filled with roasted
pumpkin pieces, skin still on and browned at the edges, and the other
is partially filed with shelled pecans. They make their way into the
bunker and look expectantly into the corner of the bunker where the
snarling owner was last seen. There is no one there.
Then they see the owner seated on the pile of powerdered soapboxes and
bar soap packages, glowering and sneering.
It’s mine!
48
Finegan calls the owner’s bluff, knowing he is not interested in soap
and has probably run through any secret food cache he had hidden in a
bunker within the bunker. Finegan turns to leave.
Suit yourself.
The owner snarls,
Wait!
Looking like a trapped, mean spirited animal, eyes shifting in every
direction and the sneer ever returning to his, the owner motions to his
side.
Bring that stuff over here and set it down.
Finegan sets his plastic buckets to the side of the soap pile, but far
enough way that the owner must actually rise from the pile to reach the
food. Finegan steps back. The owner lunges for the food, shuffling to
his corner of the bunker with it, hugging the buckets to his chest. He
starts stuffing the roasted pumpkin into his mouth like a famished
animal. Finegan picks up his soap pile and backs away toward the bunker
entry.
49
Love at Last
The houseboat is peddling along a stretch of flooded shoreline that is
rolling, grassy hills. Flocks of sheep can be seen here and there,
grazing. Joey is at ease on the rooftop, sitting cross-legged, as few
trees seem to be in the area and the hillocks can be readily seen under
the water. On occasion he points to the right or the left, indicating
which direction Finegan should steer the boat.
On shore is what looks like a group of people wrestling with a sheep.
Two men are holding it down while a woman is sheering the wool off.
Finegan stops peddling the houseboat, letting it drift closer to shore
in the morning tide. Some in the group glance up, noticing the
houseboat, but don’t stop their task until the sheep has been sheered.
They stand up suddenly, the sheep bounding to its feet and escaping.
The group continues to stand and stare, not waving or calling, piles of
wool around their feet. Finally the woman leans over to bundle the
loose wool, tying it with a cord and slinging it over her shoulder. She
sets off up the hill.
Finegan decides he must either moor or peddle to open water and turns
the boat toward shore, a spot where the shoreline elevates quickly and
the rising tide won’t run past his grappling hooks. He comes to the
front and heaves the hooks high into some brush at the shoreline. Puts
the plank at a sharp angle so that when the houseboat rises with the
tide it will be level, and climbs up, Joey at his feet. They walk over
to the two men, still standing like statues.
Finegan offers his hand.
Finegan Fine here, trader.
The deafmute comes to life and takes Finegan’s outstretched hand,
nodding. He signs, using sign language. Finegan looks momentarily
stunned, trying to figure out how to communicate and not sure if they
understood his words. He hands Joey a stick and picks up a leaf, then
he and Joey exchange while Finegan mouths his word in an exaggerated
fashion.
Trade.
The deafmute nods and motions toward the houseboat, taking off for the
houseboat with Finegan in tow. They both clamor up the gangplank, with
the deafmute poking through Finegan’s goods. Finegan is at his elbow,
looking a tad worried as he is not sure the man understands the nature
of their business – an exchange.
50
The deafmute seizes on a folded tarp, and leaving his finger firmly on